Tell Me Your Dreams
by CierraLuv97
Summary: A collection of one-shots centered around dreams, and how they affect the characters. For dreams don't just live while you sleep. They stay with us. They haunt us They help us, if we are smart enough to listen.
1. Dream Speak

_Hey, everyone. I never thought I'd see the day when I'd write Harry Potter fanfiction. Until a month ago, I actually hated them all. But then my eight year old brother started a Harry Potter family movie thing, and as I never watch the movie without reading the book, I read them all - in a week, along with watch all the movies. Now, I'm kind of suffering from Post Potter Depression. :)_

_This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, and the idea came from my annoyance at Harry, as usual. I was reading a chapter where he has one of his irritating little nightmares, and I was like, "How come Harry is the only one who ever has dreams?" And thus, this was born. It is strictly a Harry and Hermione **FRIENDSHIP** story, although there are hints of Ron and Hermione, and Ginny and Harry. _

_Also: I tried to make sound as close to the books as I could, but as I live in America, it's obviously not going to be perfect. What's really aggravating is that I used to use Australian English, which is more like British English than American English is. I really wish I still had an accent, but some dreams just don't come true. Sigh. Anyway, hope you enjoy._

_PS: Don't the italics make me seem soo sophisticated and grown-up, instead of a thirteen year old who is desperate to go to Disney World? :D_

* * *

><p>Harry was too exhausted to sleep. There was simply no other way to put it. He lay on the unfamiliar floor, tangled in the unfamiliar hot blanket, and listened to the sea breeze whistling by the window of Shell Cottage.<p>

A quiet murmur came from next to him, and Harry turned over to see Ron. He was mumbling something in his sleep. Although it wasn't loud enough for Harry to hear properly, he figured Ron was probably saying 'Hermione' over and over again, just like in the Malfoy's cellar. On that, Harry would bet his -

_Your what? _A jeering voice from inside his mind asked, and Harry realized he didn't have much he could bet. His broomstick was gone, his wand was gone, Hedwig was gone, and all the gold in his vault was virtually worthless. Those weren't the things that mattered most to him (he would trade them all for peace, and to see Ginny again), but it was yet another reminder of their situation.

Harry rolled back onto his back, ignoring the indistinguishable whispers from Ron. Once again, he closed his eyes, but sleep was far away. Frustrated, he sat up, throwing the blanket off his body (it landed on Ron's face). He needed a drink of water, or something.

In the kitchen, the fridge was humming pleasantly. When he opened it, the light shining across the linoleum floor comforted him, for some strange reason. It reminded him of a home he might have known if his parents hadn't been murdered. He pulled out a carton of milk and, after a little hunting through the cabinets, poured himself a glass of milk.

Sipping the milk, Harry wandered into the living room, where Hermione and Luna were sleeping. Ron and Harry had originally insisted on the girls sleeping in the spare bedroom, which had the only bed not being used in the cottage. Him, Dean, and Ron would take the living room. However, after dinner Hermione had fallen asleep on the couch, and when Fleur had tried to get her to move, she'd moaned about being too tired to move. Ron had offered to carry her, but she'd given him such a dark look that he quickly dropped the idea.

Luna, as always, was perfectly unperturbed and had said calmly that she didn't mind sleeping on the floor by Hermione if she was too sleepy to get up. Harry suspected it was all just a clever plot to get him, Ron, and Dean sleeping in the spare room (but probably mostly Ron), as she'd been very reluctant to take the spare bedroom in the first place. She'd failed, anyway. Ron had stubbornly refused to take the bed. Dean was sleeping in it, at the moment.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, he saw Hermione was curled up on the couch under a quilt. Luna was lying on the ground like someone in a coffin, her back straight and her hands lying on her stomach. Frightened, Harry put the milk down on the coffee table and tiptoed forward. He was relieved to see that Luna was breathing.

Something moved next to him. Out of instinct, Harry jumped back and pulled out his wand, but it was only Hermione, stirring in her sleep. And then she too started talking. Her voice was clearer than Ron's, though - she sounded fully awake, which made it all seem surreal. It also sounded scared.

"Mum," she said. "Mum, Dad… I didn't want to, I swear, I'm sorry… No!" Her entire body was shaking now, and she was getting louder. "Please! Leave me alone… Ron, Harry, don't do it… you're hurting him, stop!" Then, even more bizarre, she seemed to be speaking a sort of demented and strangled Parseltongue. Harry caught the words _open _and _leave _before it stopped, and she started talking in English again. "Ron, I didn't, he didn't… No! Please, no, it hurts, stop -"

"Hermione!" hissed Harry. He ran forward and grabbed her arm, giving her a little shake. Just like that, she stopped shrieking, and became still. Harry pulled back his hand, breathing hard. Hermione slowly sat up. After a minute, her eyes focused on him.

"Ron," she said. It wasn't a question.

"It's - it's me, Hermione, it's Harry," said Harry, still shaken. He had been expecting someone to come running, but the cottage was still. Everyone was still asleep. Even Luna didn't stir.

"Right." Hermione nodded. He couldn't be sure, but her eyes seemed wet. Then she looked away, staring determinedly at a lamp behind him.

There was a pause. Harry, hesitantly, sat down on the floor and said, "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she responded coolly, not turning her head.

"Sure?"

"Positive." Her voice was rough. She cleared her throat

Harry knew this was a lie. She was still shaking ever so slightly, and her hair was sweaty. After another moment devoid of sound except for the ocean, he said, "You were talking in your sleep."

"Oh, really?" asked Hermione, in a tone so colorless they could've been talking about clothes. "What did I say?"

"Um, a lot of stuff… you mentioned your mum and dad, and you said my name, and Ron's… you even said some stuff in Parseltongue."

"Well, that make sense. It creeps me out when you talk in it," said Hermione thickly. She sniffed.

Was she crying? Harry squinted at her. "Hermione -"

"What?" she whispered, choked up. Definitely crying.

"I don't suppose you had a nightmare?"

"Of course I had a nightmare, you're not the only one who's allowed to bloody dream," snapped Hermione through tears.

Harry didn't say anything, listening to Hermione cry quietly. He hadn't really ever thought about Ron or Hermione having nightmares. Harry had always been the one to have the foreshadowing, deeply meaningful, horrible dreams that usually ended with ones near him dying. He supposed his two best friends must've had nightmares in the seven years he'd known them, but if they had, the dreams must have not been vital in solving some huge problem, and therefore had never been mentioned.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Harry quietly. "I mean, what happened?"

Hermione blinked at him, her eyes flickering over his face. Finally, she wiped her eyes and said, "I was home. In my room. And my mum and dad were there, and they were so angry… they knew I'd wiped their memories, and they wouldn't let me explain. And I was trying to apologize, and then they changed into Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback, and we were at Malfoy Manor." Harry hadn't thought it possible, but she was talking even softer now. "They wanted the sword, and I knew I mustn't give it to them. But then they were torturing me, and I was dying… and you and Ron tried to save me, but you got k-" She swallowed and took a few shallow breaths.

"Hermione, you don't have to -"

"Would you be quiet?" she growled at him, interrupting him for the second time. "I'm trying to tell you what happened!"

"Sorry, continue," murmured Harry. She really hadn't needed to snap at him, but she was in a pretty fragile emotional state at the moment and he didn't want to upset her any further.

"Thank you," she said stiffly, her tone indicating that she felt bad, but was too proud, as usual, to admit it. "Anyway, you got killed, or just sort of died, I don't know how exactly. And then Ron was dying, but it was taking a lot longer, and he was screaming this horrible scream. And then you were both alive again, and saying these horrible things, you in Parseltongue…." She trailed off. "And then I was in the tent, and I was alone with the Horcrux. You both had left."

"That's awful," murmured Harry. He meant it, too.

Hermione said nothing, but glanced at the door that led to the spare bedroom, where Ron and Dean were sleeping at that moment.

"Do you think he knows?" she murmured.

"Knows what?"

Hermione glared at him. "Never mind." She rolled over so her back was facing him.

"Never mi - oh, right." Harry nodded, realizing what she meant.

Hermione shifted onto her back and turned her head towards him, a skeptical look on her face. "Honestly, Harry, how you ever figured out your feelings for Ginny is beyond me. You can be so _thick_."

Harry smiled, though it quickly died as his chest began to throb painfully, an all too familiar feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "I wish - I just wish we had more time -"

"At least you had time with her at all," said Hermione softly. Once again her eyes drifted towards where Ron was sleeping. "It seems really stupid when you think about it. We don't have time to be worrying about, well -"

"About love," he finished for her. It could be nothing less between him and Ginny, and he had very little doubt in his mind about Hermione and Ron.

"Well, yes… it's positively ridiculous," she went on, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "Completely illogical. Absolutely mental."

"Which is why it only makes sense," said Harry. A random memory of him and Ginny holding hands as they walked the grounds of Hogwarts came to mind. He closed his eyes and tried to absorb it, desperately hoping that, through some miracle, she'd appear in front of him, as beautiful and understanding as ever.

"Harry… sometimes I think I'm going mad," whispered Hermione.

Harry opened his eyes, and looked through the peaceful darkness wildly, searching for Ginny.

He knew exactly how she felt.

**I honestly have no idea how well I did, so if someone could clue me in that is fantastic. I read all reviews, and respond to them when I can. Every review counts. Together, we can make a difference!**


	2. If I Had Known

_Hey, peoples of the world. So, I origianlly intended this fan-fiction to be a one-shot. As in, it was done. But then, this story came to mind while I was reading the most beautiful book in the world, **The Book Thief** by Markus Zusak. I'm serious, it's better than anything I've ever read (including Harry Potter :D). I love the way the author writes, and I love the way he talks about colours. His language is so meaningful and lovely, it's poetic. With that writing style in mind, I wrote this. It is kind of drabblish, and of course it's not nearly as good as both The Book Thief or Harry Potter, but I think it's okay. Of course, it's not my point of view that matters, it's yours. Have fun!_

* * *

><p><strong>If I Had Known<strong>

Night was quiet, but it was not peace. It was stillness, but it was not lack of movement. It was dark, but the stars smouldered the velvet sky above the Burrow.

Hermione, sleeping on a spare mattress on the floor of Ginny's room, shook violently. Dreams were disturbing. They bring half-hoped, half-banished wishes and half-justified, half-irrational fears into the light. And when you've been forced to look them in the eye, the dreams make the wishes shrivel and die, and the fears expand inside your chest.

The fears break your ribcage. They suffocate your lungs. They strangle your heart.

Until you wake up, you have no control.

Instead of pictures, colours washed through Hermione's dreams. She could smell them. She could taste them, the flavour seeping through and burning her mouth. Wholesome greens and shining gold and passionate red. Understanding browns and innocent silvers and strong yellow. A whole spectrum. And then more.

Knowing greys, violent purples, quivering blues, playful oranges. She was aching from the pain of it all.

How many times did she have to say good-bye?

A black that really turned out to be deep navy blue. A friendly yellowish green. A utterly stupid pink. Just like that, they were gone.

The colours were flashing by faster now, and in the midst of them she could just makes out faces. Rich blood red. A murky, ugly brown. Pale, cold blue. And something so intense it made her want to scream - not a colour, but just a lack of one - not black, not white - it was nothing -

She snapped into the real world so fast it left her winded.

Gasping for breath, Hermione sat up. The sheet was wet with sweat, and it stuck to her body like a label. She ripped it off. She had no use for labels.

The moonlight was drifting through the window, shining on Ginny. She had offered to take the spare mattress, but Hermione refuse. As she watched, Ginny tossed in her sleep, no where near as turbulently as Hermione had, but she tossed nonetheless. She wondered what dreams would be there, and wondered if they had started to hurt yet.

Fred's funeral was tomorrow (or today, depending on what time it was). The thought made her cringe. A funeral would make everything seem final, resolute; like the words _The end _or _and they all lived happily ever after_. This was an end of something, but it was not remotely happy.

She was only at the Burrow for the funeral. She missed her parents desperately (she was starting to fear forgetting their voices), but she couldn't just leave. Missing the funeral would be inhuman. Besides, she knew that they needed her, however selfish it sounded. Leaving would hurt them. It would kill Ron.

The darkness swooped through the room. Hermione needed light.

The colours still swirling through the air, she grabbed her wand off the floor, and murmured "_Lumos_". It quietly ignited into a blue glow. She stood up and shuffled carefully into the hallway, and into the bathroom. There was no light switch (the Weasleys were sweetly oblivious about electricity), but there was a candle in the shape of a broomstick by the mirror. She touched her wand to the strange metallic wick, and the glow passed from her wand to the candle.

She stared at the mirror, not seeing anything the colours. Pale, frightened peach flesh. Dead grass brown for hair. Baby blue sweatshirt.

As she thought this, she wondered why it was called baby blue. Babies weren't blue.

It was probably their eyes.

Her eyes were the exact brown of candlelight merging with darkness.

As she looked without seeing, it hit her with such force it was like a brick had slammed into her gut.

The colours from her dreams.

Were not colours.

They were souls.

Harry. Neville. Luna. Ginny. Ron. Herself.

And then.

Tonks. Colin. Sirius. Lavender. Cedric. Remus. Fred.

The weight of them all was crippling.

She watched her face for some sign of grief, for a hint of longing sadness. She told herself the clear water (another misconception: water is not blue. It is colourless, and reflects whatever is in the air) would coming dripping down her face any second.

But it didn't.

The guilt, which was next in line, took its place.

How can you live with yourself? How can you not have the decency to cry? Where's your humanity?

The answer, if anywhere, was not in that bathroom.

Their faces, bathed in colour, floated into the air, their mouths opening wordlessly. No sound comes from the dead. A thousand different words came to her, in a thousand different languages.

Voice.

Hands

Eyes.

It didn't matter. She found herself incapable of piecing the words together. What could she have said?

I'm sorry? (It wasn't like she killed them).

I miss you? (That was obvious, or their faces wouldn't be glued to her eyelids).

Come back? (As if they could).

The stupidity of it all made her sick. She was standing in a bathroom, trying to find the words to talk to people who could no longer hear.

"You're insane," she whispered, in an attempt at reverse psychology. The whisper sounded like desperation. The attempt failed.

If she could only go back in time… if only she had known back then…

If she had known Tonks and Remus would leave their child parentless.

If she had known Fred would die in a way that was not remotely funny.

If she had known Sirius would leave Harry waiting, if she had known Cedric would be killed for fairness. If she had known Lavender would die the way she nearly had. If she had known Colin's Gryffindor spirit would kill him.

If she had known… what would she do? Could she have saved them? Was it a misstep from her that left those people shattered? Was it her fault?

Of course not, the logical voice that had guided her for so long said. Don't be stupid.

But Hermione was tired of logic.

Just because she wasn't mentally inept didn't mean she was unfeeling.

Someone outside snored. Her thoughts returned to the world she was in at the moment (a third misconception: there is no such thing as the "real" world. They are all real). The colours of the moment slurred and mixed with the colours of her dreams. It gave her a headache. Ridiculously, she shook her head, trying to dislodge them. All that happened was that the red of her dreams - the lovely, passionate colour - flew into the air.

Red.

Ron.

She needed to talk to him.

The logic inside of her resisted. It's night time (a fourth misconception: the middle of the night is never the middle of anything, but rather the end of the night, or the beginning of the morning). You are half asleep, and he's fully asleep, and he probably doesn't want to be woken up by something as silly as colours -

I don't care. It was the truth, and she climbed the stairs to Ron's room.

When she arrived, the door was ajar. She stepped in. Like in Ginny's room, there was a spare mattress. Unlike in Ginny's room, the owner of the room seemed to have won the battle against anti-hospitality. Ron was sprawled on the mattress, sheets thrown everywhere. Everything about him was still, except his lips, which were moving, and she knew he was talking in his sleep. Harry, in comparison, was tossing around just like Ginny, his mouth closed as if it was glued shut.

The question of what they dreamed of came to mind again. If it was a nightmare, or something beautiful, or a shocking relevation.

Ron's hair was fiery. She thought about everything he didn't know.

I saw your face in a colour. The thought was directed at Ron, as if he could hear her. The logic was too defeated to argue.

It was so God-damn beautiful.

She crouched down by his head.

Wake up.

She willed the words to come. It was so hard to talk above a whisper when everything is quiet.

"Wake up." It was all air. She tried again.

"Wake up, Ron." Breathy, softer than silence.

Wake up, Ron. Wake up, for me. Please wake up.

She touched his shoulder. "Wake up." It was clear. Not silence, but quiet.

His eyelids fluttered. He was waking up.

It was dark, but the colours were there.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, will someone please tell me what they think this is all about, because I honeslty have no idea what the bloody hell (tee hee - I'm not British!) I was thinking last night at ten o'clock while the rest of my family watched Lord of the Rings (yuck). I think it's sort of a shell-shocked Hermione whose kind of suffering from survivor's guilt. Or something along those lines. <strong>

**Also: I do not claim credit for the line "How many times did she have to say good-bye?" That was from **The Book Thief **and I couldn't resist. For all of you who haven't read it, I strongly reccomend it. To put it on a Harry Potter level, the relationship between Liesel (the at first illiterate main character) and her next-door neighbor Rudy (the Jesse Owens obsessed boy who is not so secretly in love with her) is semi-similiar to Ron and Hermione's relationship. Another quote from the book: "She loved and hated her best friend, Rudy Steiner, which was perfectly normal." Ha ha. Seriously, read it!**

**Oh, and I also have a CONTEST for you all: You know all the colours from Hermione's dream? Anyone who can tell me who each of the colours refer to gets a prize! For details about that prize (yes, it exists, but it's not like something you'll get in the UPS truck), see my profile. You need to know, however, that (1) Hermione herself has a colour, (2) the order in which she mentions the people from her dream is not in chronological order, (3) she doesn't mention all of them, and (4) the colour that is not a colour, but a lack of one, is included. Sorry to make that so confusing!**

**I just have one more note: Please, please review! If you think this story is suckish, how am I ever going to improve if you don't tell me? Tell me what you liked, and what you didn't. Don't just add it to your favourites and be done with it. :D Kay, that's all, I swear!**

**~ Cierra, **whose braces are broken thanks to _somebody_ (you know who you are)


	3. The Conductor

**Attention! Please read the author's note. I'm not sure if anyone ever does, but I'd really appreciate it if you read it. It's not like life-or-death knowledge, but it does have some pretty important facts (except for the first couple sentences, when I talk about my life). The fic after the actual story is more important, so if you really, desperately hate reading and only want to read 1 author's note, read the one in bold at the bottom. But please, for my sake, read both, please? Thanks. :D**

_Heyy, everyone, I'm back. Sorry it took so long, I just was so busy. School started, I'm in the auditioned chorus at school (rehearsal three mornings a week at 6:45. Yay! I'm not being sarcastic, I love it), and I've been recording and writing original songs with two of my friends. It sounds much cooler than it actually is, but it's fun._

_Anyway, I can't exactly remember where this fic came from, since I started it so long ago. The reason it took me so long was that I kind of had writer's block. Aw. But I'm over it, thanks to Xenophilius Lovegood, who gave me this totally sweet and funny story idea for Ron and Hermione (can anyone guess what it is?), and my subconscious, who gave me a completely - well, I actually don't know how to describe it... um, captivating? Anyway, the point is I had this strange but chrystal clear dream, and I really want to write about it. If you want details, read the author's note below._

_ANYWAY (again, sorry about that), this kind of is another Ginny-loses-it fic, only this time, in front of Harry. It's also a post-DH fic, so after the Deathly Hallows, and it's basically about coping with Fred's death, and getting on with life. I think there might be a little bit of meaning-of-life-hallelujah stuff in there, too, but I really don't know. Anyway, here you go!_

* * *

><p><strong>The Conductor<strong>

It wasn't really the sunlight that woke Harry up.

It was more of the lack of night that dripped into the room, warming his eyelids. Like a faucet not all the way turned off, it came slowly, but it came.

He hadn't even opened his eyes, but Harry could already tell that he wasn't in a bed, but rather lying on a couch under a soft blanket. He vaguely acknowledged that he knew the reason why, but he neither had the energy nor the interest to pursue that train of thought.

He clenched his eyes and stretched out his fingers under the blanket, thinking about his dream. He'd been in a beautiful theater, in a symphony orchestra, with Hermione and Ron and Ginny and everyone else he knew. The conductor was faceless, his hand the only thing reaching into the spotlight. In the audience, Harry could make out faces. His parents, both crying, both holding hands, both smiling. Fred, laughing at their ridiculous attempts to make music. Tonks, her hair changing colour with each pathetic, charming note. Remus, content to listen and understand more than most. Moody, analyzing each and every player for signs of mutiny. Sirius, his smile propping itself under Harry, keeping him afloat. And so many, many more, silently walking in and taking their seats as if this was a very well rehearsed play…

Something about the dream was different, though, than the dreams he normally had. He couldn't place his finger out in, but it was there, just out of reach… come on, Harry, lean forward, it's right there, go on, grab it -

"Sleep well?" A voice, heavy with morning dew, casually made itself known.

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the couch in the living room in the Burrow. Light weaved in and out, only distinguishable when it got caught on the little particles of the - well, Harry didn't know exactly what they were - _somethings _floating through the air.

Ginny, curled up under a thick quilt, was sitting in an armchair, holding a mug of what would be assumed to be coffee, except that the smell was missing. Her hair was ruffled and in a sloppy ponytail, and she was wearing an old Chudley Cannons sweatshirt. Her eyes, a pretty brown that somehow had flecks of green in them (reminding him of a grassy hill), lingered on his face.

"How did you know I was awake?" he asked as he sat up, the blanket slipping off his shoulder. There was a pleasant type of itchy tiredness in his stomach, the kind that makes you feel as if you accomplished a lot the day before.

"You don't sleep that peacefully, Harry," said Ginny, a suggestion of a smile on her face. "Ron told me."

"Really?" said Harry, grinning and yawning all at once. "What else does he say about me?"

"That you're the thickest person alive, and you like everyone too much for your own good, and that you can really take the whole 'angry confused teenager' image to an extreme." She took a sip from her mug.

"Oh, well if that's all, then," said Harry sarcastically, not at all bothered. "When exactly do you all gossip about me?"

"It's amazing how much you miss while you're off saving the world, Harry," said Ginny mock seriously.

They both laughed, their quiet laughter harmonizing with the birds and the ticking of the clock.

Music again. Just like his dream.

It was everywhere.

It had the makings of a perfect early morning symphony, except the laughter was a bit hollow on the inside, the bird's songs were repeating over and over again, slightly spooky, and, if you listened too close, the clock sounded like a grave.

It all, once again, reminded him of Fred. Of course, the other deaths had hurt, but to see Fred immobile, unsmiling, cold and lifeless, was such a cruel twist, a horrible blow that ached so much more than Moody or Remus or Tonks.

The funeral had been yesterday, and, despite all reason, it made everything seem much more surreal. Everyone had been dressed in black, weeping, and Ginny had been struggling so hard to stay strong, he had seen it on her face, and Ron had needed to leave halfway through the service, running for the woods, and Mrs. Weasley had sobbed onto Percy, who cried back onto her, like a vicious cycle. It was all like a horrible, sick dream, which again brought Harry to his dream…

"What time is it?" asked Harry, yawning again. He didn't want to think about the funeral right now.

"It's only about six o'clock," said Ginny. His yawn triggered one in her, and her mouth opened wide.

"Everyone's still asleep, then?"

"Oh, yeah." A thought crossed Ginny's face, and she smiled. "At some point in the night Hermione went up into Ron's room, because when I went looking for her, they were both curled up on the floor under one huge blanket."

More laughter. A half note of singing birds. Rest. A eighth note of ticking. Three quarter notes of a distant dog barking.

"I'm sure Ron was thrilled."

"He won't be if Mum finds them both up there," said Ginny as deviously as one can at six in the morning. "She'll automatically assume the worst. She'll be wrong, of course - Hermione would never… but that's my mother for you."

"I really don't think I'm at liberty to talk about your mother behind her back, considering she's fed me and let me practically live here since I was twelve."

"Good point," conceded Ginny. She placed her mug on the end table beside her chair, and stretched out her arms.

"So how did I -" Harry cut off. He had been about to ask why he was sleeping on the couch, except that, halfway through the question, the memory had come trotting back to him. They'd been gathered in the living room, after the funeral, just him, the Weasleys, Hermione, and several other close friends. Lee Jordan had been there - he remembered Lee trying to laugh at a joke and making a deranged hiccupping noise instead - and Luna. She was one of the few who didn't have tears running down her face, but the expression swimming in her big, dark blue eyes clearly portrayed her grief. And Harry had been sitting on the couch, and he was so exhausted, he'd been trying to stay awake, but, like a little boy up past his bedtime, he just couldn't…

He didn't want to remind Ginny of the awfulness of the funeral, but when he glanced at her, he could tell she knew what he'd been about to ask. She had tilted her head back, blinking desperately. Something inside of Harry told him she was trying to keep it together for him, and that bothered him.

"Ginny," he said softly. "You can cry, you know, I don't mind."

"I don't want to!" she whispered fiercely, still looking up at the ceiling. "Everyone else is crying and I hate it - Fred would…" she trailed off, swallowing.

"It's normal to -"

"I know!" she snapped.

The restful quietness of daybreak had now turned into stiff and awkward silence, echoing for measures and measures. Harry was suddenly aware of so many things, like how far her chair was from him, and how loud the mournful ticking of the clock was. It was the first time she'd ever snapped at him, and, while Harry wasn't remotely angry about it, he did feel like it was significant.

"I'm sorry," said Ginny shakily.

"For what?" Harry blinked.

"It just feels like everyone's lost it," she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "And I've never been, you know, like the strong one, or the one everyone goes to for comfort, but everyone who helped keep Mum and everyone together normally, they're all a mess, and so half of me feels like I should be the strong one now, like I'm responsible for how Mum is… and the other half of me feels guilty, because I'm not crying, I dunno, _hard _enough, like I don't miss Fred enough, but I do, God knows how much…"

She'd started crying at some point while she was talking. Harry wasn't sure when - her words and the confused, twisted feelings and thoughts behind them had overwhelmed him with some sort of strong, unidentifiable emotion. What was it, pity? Grief? Heartbreak? He didn't know. All he did know was that the force of _her_ heartbreak was steadily carving a hole in his chest.

"Ginny -" he began, but before he could finish, she'd stumbled off of the armchair she'd been sitting on, her quilt slumping to the floor, and next to him on the couch. She was shivering, even though it wasn't cold.

"How do you do it?" she whispered desperately. "After everyone you've… how do you get on with your life? I saw you after Sirius died, Harry, and it wasn't like you were like me right now, or my mum, or anything! How do you stand it?" She gave a little sob, her hands flying up near her face. "Am I bad person, for wanting to get better -"

"Ginny." said Harry firmly, determined not be interrupted. He grabbed her hands, holding them tightly in his own. She stared up at him, with a tear-streaked face and soaked grassy brown eyes. "Listen to me! You're not a bad person." He sounded hauntingly similar to Sirius. "You're one of the best people I know, and Fred… and Fred's death doesn't change that, or makes you bad. It's been two weeks, Ginny, two weeks. I had to stay strong, Voldemort was trying to murder me, it was war, and it wasn't like I was all better after two weeks, two weeks into I was still a wreck. You've got all the time in the world, you could keep mourning Fred forever. But you won't. I'm not going to say I know how you're feeling, because I don't, not exactly, but you're going to get better." He paused, thinking of Fred, and swallowed. "We all will."

He wasn't quite sure what else to say to her. Yes, he'd known people who had died, but how do you comfort someone whose lost a person they grew up with? Ginny was born playing with and loving Fred, he'd been there her entire life. Her loss would always be greater than his. How can you compare anything to that?

Ginny stared at him for a couple beats. The birds had finally stopped chirping, but her ragged breathing had now entered the music, jarring the notes slightly. After a moment, almost in slow motion, she leaned against him, and she was in his arms, and he was holding her. It was ironic, almost funny (in a completely non laughable way), that two weeks ago, all Harry wanted was to hold her like this, and now he was too tired to really notice. It was as if comforting Ginny had drained him of any mental strength he had.

Their breathing was in harmony now, giving a steadfastness to the morning melody. Leaves outside rustled, and the wind chimes sang a half note. Once again, Harry thought of the symphony of his dream.

After a few minutes, someone stepped on a creaky floorboard upstairs, evidence that they weren't the only souls alive. Ginny sat up, pulling herself to a respectable distance away from Harry. He was reminded of his internal struggles when he was sixteen, the ones concerning Ginny and a very protective Ron, and a small smile wormed its way onto his face.

"I had a weird dream last night," he said quietly, as if they'd been talking about this all along.

Ginny was studying him, and Harry had the sense there were things she had yet to tell him. "What was it about?"

"I was playing in a symphony orcherastra, like a Muggle one, and you were there too, and Hermione, and Ron, and loads of other people. I don't remember what instrument I was playing or anything, but the actual orcherstra part was normal, like there was a conductor and everything. And in the audience, my parents were there, and…" A sudden realization came to mind. "And anyone else I knew who had died. They were all there, watching."

Ginny did not react with worry, fear, or pity, as someone else would, and Harry was reminded yet again of why he loved her so incredibly hard. She instead watched him seriously. After a moment, she asked, "Who was the conductor?"

Harry paused, thinking. Who _was_ the conductor?

Was it Dumbledore, wiser than them all? Or Voldemort, pointing at people to take their seats, killing off the music? Or even - though Harry was dubious about this, as he'd never been remotely religious - God, who for some reason took away the best musicians?

And then, as Harry stared into Ginny's beautiful eyes, thinking of her and Ron and Hermione, of Luna and Neville and everyone else he loved, he realized he completely understood the dream.

"We all were," he told Ginny, not caring whether she understood or not. She didn't say anything, but leaned in again, and kissed him. Harry closed his eyes and kissed her back, the dream fading from his mind as he did so, for it was no longer an enigma, a collection of unorganized thoughts and emotions.

The reason why the dream was so special was simply because it _wasn't _special. It was prophetic, revealing, or important in discovering some way to defeat his enemies. It was simply a dream, his own dream. It meant nothing.

And, in that way, it meant everything.

* * *

><p><strong>Like it? Personally, I don't. And I'm not just saying it to get people to say "Omigosh don't say that it's super amazing Teehee!" Because I don't want false compliments. If you honestly like it, great for you, but if you don't, tell me why <em>(I'm sick and tired of your attitude, feeling like I don't know you<em>... sorry, couldn't resist spontaneous Taylor Swift)_._ I think that, since I kind of used it to pull me out of my writer's block, it's kind of rushed, and it loses its meaning by the end. But I don't know. Let me know what you think!**

**So, my dream. I had a total Stephanie Meyer moment, and woke up completely stunned. Anyway, I'm just going to summarize: In my dream, Harry was killed by Voldemort, and a lot of the characters (Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville, and Mrs. Weasley) were going to be executed. And just before they died, Hermione and Ron were trying to convince one another that there has to be some sort of life after death, and that they'd see each other soon, and that it wasn't good-bye. When I woke up, I was immediately struck by what a beautiful and meaningful moment it was (along with nerdy). I'd already been toying with this idea of Harry not being there in time to save everyone (I'm not giving everything away), and this suddenly seemed to fit. I think it'd be a multi-fic, but I don't know. Except if I did write it, they'd probably be a very sad and very (probably) dramatic good-bye moment between Ron and Hermione. So, I don't know. If you like this idea, let me know, because I'm looking for a Beta or someone to help me out with that idea. **

**Kay, that's it, I think! Review please, I really like reviews!**

**~ Cierra**, who is already singing Christmas songs (how pathetic!)


End file.
